


The Colour Of Drowning

by SweaterGabe



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: FTM, M/M, Original Character(s), Transgender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9077074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweaterGabe/pseuds/SweaterGabe
Summary: Broken families made for broken children, and Jasper Lazard made no exception to this commonly accepted rule. At sixteen, he was all but a mediocre boy with little aspiration and average grades to match.    On the surface, he appeared to be nothing more than dull; many knew of his impoverished background led by an alcoholic father and uncaring mother, and so this was all they cared to see.   He would pretend to smile around others, and did a good job of playing off the pity card he had been handed by a God he chose not to believe in.   Nobody suspected anything sinister of Jasper, an advantage earned partially due to his distinct ability to copy the mannerisms of those around him. Thus, nobody ever acted on the evil lurking within him—until shortly after his sixteenth birthday, that is.





	1. Biting The Bullet

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing fanfiction written from the perspective of a sixteen year old, who likes to self-insert themselves (or at least traits of themselves) in to fanfictions involving underage romances. That is to say, if you are uncomfortable with a 45 year old man *cough* fucking *cough* a 16 year old, maybe don't read? Just a suggestion.

Bittersweet and not unfamiliar to Jasper, the metallic taste of blood caked the walls of his mouth. It was a slow realization, dulled by the anesthesia that had been applied—unbeknownst to him at the time—of what exactly was happening.

   Attempting to swallow his built up saliva, he found himself unable to do so. His attempt at clearing his throat was blocked by something cool and hard. It was at this point that he opened his eyes, in one swift second. It wasn’t blood he tasted, something he was used to merely due to the fact he often awoke with bleeding noses running down his throat, but the harsh metal of a handgun’s barrel.

   He could see this now, illuminated by a dim white light from a dying LED bulb hanging still above him. In an effort to remove the gun strapped to his face by some strange steel contraption, he moved his hands. This was cut short quite quickly by the chains on his wrists pulling taut. It appeared that he could not move his arms much further than a few inches from their initial position at his sides, neither could he, his legs.

   Adrenaline filling his system, he hastily took in his surroundings. Though the white from the ceiling light only lit a few meters around him, he could see a chair seated not three meters directly parallel to his front. Another person was seated in the chair, passed out and in much the situation as him, with a handgun situated firmly in their mouth. Unlike him, however, their hands were bound much more tightly and where in fact strapped to the arms of the chair, as were their ankles to the chair’s legs. Lifting his gaze from their body he tried to catch a glimpse of their face, hindered by the tears swelling in the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision.

   His breath faltered as his vision cleared and the person moved their head up to be elucidated by the light. Voice muffled by the weapon inserted in his mouth, he queried rhetorically, ‘ _Mother?_ ’

 

As he did so, a harsh grating sound like static filled his ears, also awakening his mother—the woman strapped to the chair before him—in the process. It was a television, located behind his mother’s seat where only he could see it.

   Easily recognizable to anybody who had watched the news for the weeks up to that point, a puppet with black hair and red spiraled cheeks took up a large portion of the hazy screen. Digitized, a voice spoke over the image while the doll made mouth movements, ‘ _Welcome, Jasper. I would introduce myself further, but I do believe that is unnecessary in light of recent media focus. As such, I also believe that you are well aware of the situation you are in, having now seen this tape begin._ ’

   Meanwhile, Jasper’s mother was fidgeting in her chair, making sharp and short movements like a seizure as she attempted to remove herself from the restraints digging in to her flesh. Her son refused to meet her eye and instead kept his vision locked on the crude wooden doll pictured on the static-filled screen that looked like it was from the 80’s.

   ‘ _You may not, however, be completely aware of_ why _you are in this situation,’_ the voice continued after a short pause, ‘ _you are here because of a death that you have caused; the death of a school peer…’_ Instead of the puppet, the screen now displayed an image of a girl that Jasper recognized as Karen from the year below him—aged 15 at the time of her, well, untimely death. The next image that came on to the screen was that of a crime scene, cordoned off by yellow tape and taken in flash mode. It was of a body propped up against a wall with dried brown gunk plastered all over the wallpaper behind its head. ‘ _This was taken just two weeks ago, when Karen Wright shot herself in the head with her father’s handgun, because of your actions, your words._ ’

   Jasper moved his eyes back to the gun propped against him, and then at the one that his mother was struggling to free herself from. Deduction skills quite advanced as they were, it took him no more than a few moments to realize at least the most basic premise of what was going to happen. While his mother had arm straps completely locking her in place, he was free to move his hands around at least a little bit—just enough to reach the red buttons on the arm rests either side of him. They both had printed black letters on them. One had the word _you_ and the other _her_. He could only guess—though his guess was educated by his knowledge of Jigsaw’s recent “games” reported on by the local and national news—that this would end with one of the two biting a bullet. In quiet despair he let out a small sigh of defeat, hands clenched in to so tight fists that his knuckles bore white tips, and relaxed himself in to his chair of confinement. Still his mother struggled, and he attempted to block out the loud sounds of her agonizing squeals as she began to rub the metal of her wrist clasps in to her flesh.

   ‘ _Do you see now why you deserve this?_ ’ The voice shattered the silence he had just been beginning to achieve in his mind. He withheld the clarity of thought, though, and while absently listening to the television screen and its static crackles, he began to ponder his options. ‘ _But do not fret, Jasper… You still have a chance to be forgiven, to_ change _yourself for the better._ ’

   Quite well timed to fit in with the end of the “hopeful” sentence just spouted by the dummy, a more luminescent light flickered in to life overhead, between the two hostages. As if not noticing Jasper until now, his mother stopped struggling and instead just stared at her son, also too realizing what was to come.

   ‘ _You have a choice, Jasper. You can be done with the mother that watched by as your father beat you and your brother_ ,’ a pause, featuring a display of images of his dead brother on screen that made him unconsciously cringe, ‘ _The mother that emotionally abused you even after your brother tragically died, that molded you in to the devoid monster you are today…’_

_Or you can take your own life instead, and spare her unworthy soul the trouble, allowing her to roam free in the world and ruin more lives.’_

The video stopped rolling, and the voice halted, seemingly finished with its twisted speech of supposed salvation. Above the screen, a large red LED timer came to life, starting at sixty seconds and slowly counting down with loud beeps in between each second.

   Again, Jasper’s mum thrashed against her bindings. He did not move, but instead stared deeply at both buttons at his sides. The one titled _you_ clearly meant Jasper himself, and the one titled _her_ being his mother. A mere sixty seconds to decide whose life to take. Sighing again, feeling the steel of the gun pressing against the palate of his mouth, he closed his eyes and re-ran the outcomes of all scenarios in his mind.

 

Either he could kill his mother, as the video suggested he should, to save himself; or he could kill himself, and let her go. Both ways would be acceptable to Jigsaw, he supposed—one would rehabilitate a child suicide-provoker, and the other would rehabilitate a horrible mother.

   That is, until she would kill herself out of grief for losing both her children to murder—or, technically in his case, it would be suicide. Jasper, with fifteen seconds left on the clock, had come to the conclusion that it would be most beneficial to both his own self and society if he just pushed the button to his right.

 

Blank gaze, empty eyes, he raised his head, made eye contact with his mother. She stopped, knowing. Right hand’s fingers lightly grazing the surface of the red button he intended to push, feeling its plastic coating, he maintained eye contact as he pushed the button.

   There was a rush of adrenaline, but no remorse, as he watched the trigger get pulled by a string that had been mechanically attached to it. Still no remorse as the bullet fired, beaten in terms of noise only by the dastardly crack that echoed in the cold room as it came in to contact with the middle aged woman’s skull. Her teary eyes mixed with the blood spewing from her mouth as her head fell limply forward, whole body hunching over.

 

Blinking once, blinking twice, Jasper was surprised that there were no tears of his own staining his porcelain cheeks. He raised his hand to wipe at his eyes anyway, out of habit, and felt a burst of sudden relief as he was not held back by chain; the restraints had opened and he was free.

   To a certain point, at least, he told himself. He was still absolutely lost as to where he was, and there was always the chance that the game wasn’t over. Still, he felt palliated to be free of the heaviness that had held down his arms. What worried him was that the gun was still lodged deep in to his mouth.

 

As if to quash his worries, the television screen burst back in to life. _Is it not over?_ He angrily hissed in to the crevasses of his mind. Alas not, for as the voice-over of the dummy began to play in time with its moving mechanical mouth, the gun’s mechanical arm that held it in place began to pull away. It dislodged itself from its place, resting atop his tongue, and allowed for him to move—but he didn’t. Jasper was too busy awaiting the news the dummy held for him then.

   ‘ _Good job, Jasper. You have freed yourself from your demons, and have recanted your… sins._ ’

   He felt his face scrunch up at that, uncertain as to whether Jigsaw was religious or simply using religious tropes to get his point across. Either way, it clearly upset Jasper, the use of the words demons and sins. It reminded him of his religious mother, and how she often tried to force it upon him.

   There was no further time for him to be disgusted by the likely coincidental use of religious terms, for the voice continued in a more light tone, ‘ _I have alerted the police of your position, and they should be arriving shortly. Until then, I would like for you to consider something—do you want to help others in the same way I have helped you?_ ’

 

Once again, the television snapped off and this time a loud sizzling noise followed. Quickly, it became evident somebody had purposely rigged the set to self destruct after the playing of the final video. Jasper wondered curiously as to whether that exact video congratulating him would have played even if he had killed his mother, or if it was not a tape that was playing but an off-site connection being monitored by the culprit, Jigsaw. He decided that was most likely, and as he stared at the TV he could now see that beside the clock—frozen on three seconds—was a small video camera.

   Not for long, as it too set itself in to flames as the television made another loud popping sound, wires exploding. This made Jasper rethink—why would the television set need to be disposed of if the videos were being sent in from off-site? Perhaps Jigsaw had just somehow _known_ that he would choose to kill his mother rather than himself.

 

Brows furrowed, he curiously contemplated this possibility, just as police sirens began to sound from somewhere close by, and many in number.


	2. First Encounters

Jasper counted as the SWAT men filed in, all in a perfect line. They all had their guns up, ready to fire at the sight of any suspicious movement. Seven, he finished counting, as the last person entered the room—not a SWAT personnel, but a well-built man in an NYPD uniform jacket.

   This man too had a gun, though it was nowhere near as impressive as the more professional gunmen; a simple handgun, holstered in plain sight on his waist. Upon seeing Jasper in the chair, quite still and making no attempt to move from his position, he slowly drew his small weapon and held it against his leg. It was cautious, but he clearly meant not to shoot.

   The other men, however, Jasper was not so certain. ‘Name yourself!’ One of the obviously higher ranked men yelled loudly, his voice jumping from concrete wall to concrete wall in an obnoxious echo. Jasper momentarily flashed back to his mother’s muffled cries echoing throughout the room, but he shoved the thought back in to his mind where they belonged; out of sight, out of mind.

   After taking a few seconds to compose himself, he replied, ‘Jasper Lazard, sixteen, sole surviving participant in this edition of Jigsaw’s rehabilitation game.’

 

Before the SWAT man could yell again, the NYPD police fellow stepped in, urging them to lower their weapons. He had a concerned look on his face, and Jasper assumed that it was aimed at the fact that he was perfectly calm and in no state of despair or fear. Jasper himself was uncertain as to the reason behind his sudden equilibrium, but he was glad for it. God forbid he appear like a sniveling little baby in front of government officials—not an image he wanted to create for himself.

 

‘Jasper, are you injured?’ The man asked carefully, annunciating his words more than a person normally did. Was he assuming Jasper was in a state of shock? Jasper found this mildly offensive but kept it to himself, instead simply replying to the queried notion with a swift shake of his head to imply no. This was enough for the policeman, who began to tread towards the chair atop which the teenager was still firmly seated, giving a sideward glance at the dead woman across from the boy. Gagging slightly, he managed to slide past without getting any brain matter on his shoes, though there was a seemingly endless supply of it drizzled all across the concrete floor.

   Satisfied that the place was not booby trapped, he made it finally over to Jasper, who emptily looked up at the man, still seated. Half expecting to have to shake his hand, he realized for perhaps the fourth or fifth time that he was in fact not at a social gathering, but in the center of a crime scene organized by the most notorious villain in America at the time.

   He was suddenly having difficulty piecing together his emotions and it became rather evident that he _was_ in a state of severe shock, his breathing unbalanced as too his pulse.

 

‘Jasper,’ the man was speaking again he realized, using his first name to imply some sense of calamity he supposed, ‘I’m going to lift you now, is that okay?’

   He had a nice voice, Jasper thought to himself, but he was a stranger nonetheless and he had to decline the offer, ‘No, I don’t want to be touched.’ While saying this, he made to stand up. Planting his feet firmly on to the ground he tried to raise himself, in the process accidentally pushing the red button labeled _you_.

   The gun fired upwards, barely missing Jasper’s chin as his jaw dropped in fear. It was the first time he’d felt fear in the whole ordeal, and it was only because he feared for himself. As he fell forward, legs going limp beneath him, he watched the SWAT men all raise their guns in habitual readiness to fire in return.

  

Despite his earlier refusal to be helped up, Jasper was grateful when he did not make full frontal contact with the rough concrete floor, but instead found himself falling in to the ready arms of the police officer.

   The man helped to steady him, thick hands clasped gently but firmly around his upper arms. ‘Still think you don’t need help?’ Snarky, the officer queried. Jasper’s lip quivered and he shook his head, ‘It’s not that I don’t need it—I just don’t _want_ it.’ At this, the man’s concerned expression metamorphosed in to that of confusion, eyebrows furrowed in consideration. ‘But, whatever…’ Jasper muttered under his breath, placing his right hand on to the officer’s chest, gripping at the thick waterproof material so as not to fall over again, legs still wobbling beneath him.

 

As he was lifted off of the ground, Jasper closed his eyes to block the sight of his imploded mother and decided to change the subject to one less painful to talk of, ‘You know my name now, but I don’t know yours.’

   ‘Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman,’ was the solemn reply, a reflexive answer that he no doubt had to give to many people many times in a day. Jasper took his turn now to furrow his brows, ‘I recognize…’ he paused; eyes still clamped tightly shut, ‘You’re the lead detective on the Jigsaw case, right?’

   ‘Only because I’m the last one…’

 

Jasper chose not to follow that line of conversation any further, having clearly drudged up memories for the detective. Still, it would not have mattered even if he had wanted to, for they had seemingly arrived at their destination and the detective began to slowly lower Jasper from within his grasp.

   Now having calmed down some, he found himself able to at least stand on his own, and took the moment to look around at his surroundings, make sense of where he was perhaps.

 

There was nothing he recognized; they were in a large outside parking lot. An abandoned hospital, Jasper presumed, judging from the outer demeanor of the building he now gazed over with blurry vision.

   The entire place was lit up by flashing blue and red lights, swirling around like a disco ball—it made Jasper queasy. He raised his hand up to his throat, expecting to vomit, though he found himself unable to. 

   Once more a familiar hand rested on his shoulder, ‘Are you alright?’

   Jasper nodded, turning back to the Detective. ‘Can we just… Can we go?’ His voice was gravelly and dry. The inquiry was hurriedly answered as the hand upon his shoulder urged him towards a police car stationary just in front of them; Detective Hoffman’s.

   ‘I’ll take you back to the police station and get you cleaned up,’ Hoffman began, pausing before taking a more serious note, ‘And then I’ll ask you some questions.’ It wasn’t an offer, presented more as indisputable fact. Jasper clearly had no say in the matter, not that he much minded.

   Hoffman opened the passenger side door for him—not the back seat door as Jasper had been expecting—and the boy slipped in, shaky hands grasping at the seat belt. Hoffman then walked around the car and entered the driver’s seat, blank-faced. The car started. Jasper leaned back and stared up at the roof of the vehicle, glad for the comfortable padding that his previous chair had not had.

 

As the car began to exit the premises, Jasper saw horrifying images on his eyelids.


	3. Procedure

It was a relatively long, and silent, car ride from the crime scene to the NYPD police department; approximately thirty minutes, not including the five that it took for the Detective to stop off at a coffee shop and pick up two drinks, one with soy for Jasper.

 

When they finally pulled up to the 1PP on Park Row, Jasper felt a sense of false relief. It was a tall building, and retained the appearance of something from the 80’s despite being the newer NYPD building, replacing the more elegant one only eight minutes distance.

   Undoing his seatbelt, he went to open the door only to be halted by Hoffman beating him to it from the outside. Jasper looked up at him, unmoving, before smiling meekly and exiting the vehicle.

 

Inside the building was a lot more sophisticated than Jasper had first imagined; a bustling hive of police men and women all scrambling about to handle phone calls and file reports. He winced at the noise, a small movement caught by Mark Hoffman who proceeded to quickly move him through the front lobby.

   As they made for the elevator, past the reception desk, many eyes turned and watched. Jasper wondered how far behind their ogling would put them in their work; he hoped a lot.

 

They were alone in the elevator and Jasper side-eyed what floor they were headed to—five.

   When the confined box jolted in to life, Jasper stumbled somewhat, brushing his arm against Detective Hoffman’s. The Detective pulled his arm away, seemingly uncomfortable. Jasper assumed he was mildly claustrophobic, a guess also based on the tall man’s disconcerted expression.

   Jasper wasn’t claustrophobic. He’d spent too many hours tucked away in his messy closet hiding from his father, and later in life his mother, to be afraid of confined spaces—they were his sanctuary at that point.

 

Heights, on the other hand, he couldn’t deal with. So when Hoffman led him out of the elevator on to the fifth floor, a sense of dread washed over him like a tidal wave, ready to suck him out to the sea of fear.

   A habit he couldn’t break, Jasper chewed slightly at the insides of his cheeks, anxiously following the Detective close behind to a door at the end of the hall.

 

It was dark inside, and when Hoffman flicked the light switch on, Jasper was temporarily blinded. Once his vision had calmed, he took in the contents of the room all at once.

   Somewhat messy but in an organized manner, that is to say that while there was a lot of junk in the room Hoffman clearly knew where everything was, the office was medium sized and contained three major features of furniture; a large wooden desk, a wall-length bookshelf cabinet, and a black sofa along the wall beside the doorway.

 

Jasper didn’t enter the room until Hoffman urged him to with a “come hither” motion of his hand. ‘I’m not going to interrogate you in the normal rooms,’ he stated bluntly, picking up a framed photo of a young woman with similar facial features to himself before putting it down again, backwards this time on the shelf. _Sister, perhaps,_ Jasper wondered, more interested now in the photo than the trauma he’d experienced not an hour earlier. He contemplated asking about it, but decided now was not the time.

 

‘Normal procedure would have me taking you to the hospital, but I have no time for procedure,’ Hoffman announced, mostly to himself as affirmation that he did not, in fact, have the time to follow procedure.

   He took a seat at the large office desk, in a black faux leather swivel chair. Running his slender fingers back through that near ivory hair of his, Hoffman sighed heavily. ‘Do you remember how you ended up in the hospital?’ He inquired, confirming Jasper’s previous suspicion of what the abandoned building had once been.

   He lowered his head, abruptly realizing he had not even thought once about how he had gotten there. ‘I… I don’t know,’ he uttered, barely audible. Staring down at his ghostly hands, he tried to visualize the events leading up to what he assumed would be called his kidnapping.

 

He had been going for a walk at last he remembered, but it wasn’t one he had scheduled or went on regularly. _So, how long was Jigsaw following me beforehand?_ Must have been at least all day, likely more than just one day, Jasper eventually concluded. He never followed any particular routine for daily activities, so for his captor to have been there on his walk, he must have been followed for sometime earlier.

   This frightened Jasper unexpectedly—immediately beginning to feel paranoid as to how much of his life had been invaded in the days leading up to his kidnapping.

 

‘I was going on a walk,’ He unhurriedly lifted his gaze from his lap, to stare not at Hoffman but somewhere indistinct behind him. Eye contact was unfavourable.

   ‘Do you remember where?’ Hoffman asked, readying a black ballpoint pen betwixt his forefingers. He twirled it around in a bored fashion, making Jasper question just how much he really cared about his case at all. He was likely just stressed, so Jasper dropped the thought.

   ‘Forest Park,’ Jasper replied; it was a personal favourite of his, and he would walk there whenever he needed time to think. Often, he strayed from the set walking paths. In hindsight, this habit was likely what allowed his captor to so easily snatch him without being noticed by passersby.

   The Detective wrote this information on a piece of police paper, and Jasper read it upside down. _Nice handwriting_ , he noted dully. It reminded him of his late brother’s handwriting. He looked down again, at his lap.

  

A knock at the door interrupted the informal interrogation, and a semi-bald man poked his head through the doorway before being allowed to do so by Hoffman. This did not seem to upset the Detective, who watched as the podgy man entered the room.

   Jasper refrained from any eye contact, choosing to gaze down at the man’s feet, of which were dressed in brown suede dress shoes. Well worn, likely an old gift from an important person; it would explain why he hadn’t gone out and bought a less rugged pair. Sentimental value blinds a persons’ ability to see when something is past its time.

   ‘Hoffman, the paramedics are upset that you took the victim without their consent,’ the man said, sounding quite stern. Hoffman grunted in submission, ‘My apologies sir.’

   ‘Just take him to them now—they need to do checkups.’

 

There was no addressing himself to Jasper, which the teen found to be rude. It would have been at least polite to introduce himself to Jasper, and upon his not doing so before leaving the room in a disgruntled manner, it left the boy frowning.

   He was not only upset at the lack of properness, but at the fact that he would have to go to a hospital. Having just come from one, albeit the dismantled remains of what _once_ was a hospital, he was in no great rush to go to another.

 

Feeling ever so slightly guilty for getting the Detective in trouble, as it was he who asked if they could leave the crime scene, Jasper looked up from his downwards glance and made an uncommon eye contact with the man. ‘I’m sorry… For not letting you follow procedure.’

   While he knew he wasn’t entirely in the wrong for the situation, as it had been the Detective who actually got them to leave the scene, he figured it couldn’t hurt to suck up to the man a little bit. It might make things less awkward in the long run.

   ‘No, no. No need,’ Hoffman absently replied while standing and readjusting his coat jacket. ‘Come on, I should get you to the hospital.’

   Jasper stood, giving a sideways glance towards the photo frame that was facing backwards in its stance. Hoffman noticed this and defensively stepped in front of his gaze, before hurriedly beckoning him out of the room.

 

‘They’re not going to make me stay there, are they?’ Jasper asked, a hint of fear tinged on the edges of his still gratingly dry voice, as they exited the office and re-entered the wide hallway.

   He abruptly paused; stopping dead in his tracks with an expression not unlike that, that someone has halfway down the street before querying whether or not they left the stove on. ‘Though, I suppose… Where would I stay now anyway?’ It was a rhetorical question aimed mostly at his self, as he came to terms with the fact that while he had mostly despised his mother, he had most definitely needed her for many “adult” things like paying for housing and food.

   Hoffman gave him a pitying stare, before ripping away his eyes. _Afraid of getting attached to an orphan_ , Jasper thought. He could see why someone might not want to grow too attached to him now; he’d nowhere to go, and having just killed his mother not many would feel particularly inclined to taking him in.

   The Detective made no attempt at comforting him or reassuring him that things would be okay. In fact, Jasper noted that on their travel back down the elevator and all the way through the front lobby, the man seemed quite reserved and withdrawn.

   They had to stop off briefly at the front desk where Hoffman signed out on the register. He hadn’t signed _in_ when they had arrived, so Jasper determined that the register was something they signed only at the beginning and end of an entire day’s shift. That then further implied to Jasper that there would be no further interrogation after going to the hospital; he might actually have to stay in one of those god awful detergent smelling rooms.

 

As they got back in to Hoffman’s car, the street was mostly empty and all of the lights in the buildings surrounding 1PP were out. The moon was heaving itself through the inky sky like an anchor, and Jasper watched its clumsy yet graceful rise as the engine started again, still warm from their earlier drive.

   ‘Which hospital?’ Jasper bluntly asked in more of a stating tone than a querying one. Hoffman, while driving out of the parking lot, replied equally as absently, ‘Lower Manhattan; Presbyterian.’

   Jasper recognized the name but had never been there. Coming from Queens District rather than Manhattan, he had only ever been to hospitals local to his borough. Strange, though, would the paramedics at the crime scene have driven him to the nearest hospital or would they have taken the near hour drive to this one? Jasper wondered if that’s how paramedics worked. He would have to look it up at a later date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might redo this chapter. Who knows.


	4. Clinical Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essentially just filler. Introducing another original character, though a mildly unimportant one.

After five or so minutes standing in the crowded first floor lobby while the Detective attempted to confirm with the secretary lady that their presence was expected, they were finally led to an equally as white examination room.

   The only window had a view back in to the lobby, but the wooden shutters were closed. Jasper was grateful for this, not particularly eager to have passersby looking in on him. It made him feel small—he’d always hated crowds.

   ‘Please wait in here, Dr. Whitehead should arrive shortly,’ the secretary lady said. Jasper looked to Detective Hoffman as the woman left, not saying anything but thinking to himself about how the first image that had entered his mind upon hearing the doctor’s name was that of a Nazi skinhead. He thought to himself then, too, about how he would have to stop making silly unprecedented connections of no validity.

 

‘Are you required to be here?’ Jasper asked the Detective, breaking the solemn silence that had eased itself between the two like a wedge. He did not want the silence to continue, as it made the screams of his mother echo louder in the back of his mind.

   ‘Would you rather I leave?’ Hoffman inquired in return, fiddling with some of the medical equipment on the bench. Jasper sat down on the olive coloured padded examination table in the centre of the room. The Detective hadn’t actually answered his question, but the response did imply that he didn’t actually _have_ to be there.

   ‘Not at all...’ Jasper muttered, just audible enough to earn a nod of recognition from Hoffman. From Jasper’s perspective, it was somewhat suspicious as to how much attention the Detective was paying his particular case, to the point of accompanying him to the medical check-up. Unaware as to the true extent of Hoffman’s curiosity, he pinned it down to being mere pity for the now orphan.

 

The door opened with a slight creak; _perhaps they should oil their hinges_. Jasper peered over blankly to face a middle-aged woman with strawberry blonde hair styled in to large ringlets, stretching down to her bosom on the front and to the crook of her back from behind.

   ‘Good evening, dear...’ She had the same pitying tone that he recognized from years ago at his brother’s funeral. It disgusted him how people would falsely pretend that they actually care, just to give themselves an ego boost of moral high ground. There was to be no complaint from Jasper, though, as he metaphorically bit his tongue. Not the time to be playing the sarcastic devil, but rather the traumatised boy. In truth, he felt not much of anything. The fear had subsided for the time being, leaving him full of angst.

 

‘My name is Alison Whitehead,’ the woman, Alison, turned to Hoffman before continuing in a more professional tone that further proved Jasper’s internal point that people like her only put on a mask of sympathy to make themselves feel better, ‘And you must be the infamous Detective Hoffman. It’s nice to finally meet you, having looked after a lot of the previous victims.’

   She held her hand out for the well-built man to shake. A moment of hesitation before the offer was accepted and the two clasped their palms together in a friendly introductory handshake. Jasper noted from the corners of his vision that the woman was looking the Detective up and down, checking him out. He was both upset that she was not doing her job and examining him, but grateful that she wasn’t playing coy pity anymore.

   ‘Nice to meet you too, Dr. Whitehead,’ Hoffman gloomily responded, clearly not sharing the same feeling of physical attraction the woman had conveyed an interest in of him. ‘Please, call me Alison.’

   Jasper scoffed under his breath. _Is now the time to be hooking up?_ His scoff did not go unnoticed and Dr. Whitehead turned her attention to him.

   ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ She rejoiced to herself, stepping away from Hoffman with once final glance over his chest before sitting down on the metal chair beside the examination table.

 

‘I’m a resident psychiatrist here, Jasper, and I’m going to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind,’ she spoke on autopilot, like a broken record that repeated the same sentence to thousands of patients every day. Jasper noted the similarity to how Hoffman had earlier said almost the exact same thing.

   ‘Sure.’

   Dr. Whitehead pulled a clipboard off of the steel bench and ticked a few boxes before looking up at the boy again. Jasper did not look her in the eye, despite knowing that she would most definitely notice this and think it had something to do with his being a victim of Jigsaw.

 

‘Jasper, just tell me if you don’t want to answer anything, okay?’

   He wondered how many of the other Jigsaw victims she had previously “treated” had refused to answer some of the questions. Unconsciously, he decided to make it sort of a game to ensure he replied to all of them—another coping mechanism of his; to turn everything in to a puzzle to be solved, a game to be played.

 

‘You say you were out on a walk when you were... taken...’ She seemed to pussyfoot around the word, wanting to find a less abrupt one. Jasper was more focused on how she could have known that. Did Detective Hoffman give her his half-written interrogation? If so, what a betrayal of what little trust he had placed in the man—he would have to be more careful with whom he said these things to, clearly. ‘Do you remember anything else that happened?’

   At this, images flashed like gunfire before Jasper’s eyes—somebody in a black coat, wearing some kind of animal mask. He tore himself from the vision and frowned at her, ‘What is the point in me being here if you’re just going to ask me exactly the same questions the Detective would ask?’

   Whitehead wrote something down, a single word from what Jasper could see of her pen movement. Ah, he realised, he’d already messed up and not answered one of her questions. Did all of the Jigsaw patients mess up that question? He hoped so, that he wouldn’t appear to Whitehead as being any weaker than the rest of them.

   ‘I’m only here to help you understand, Jasper. Not to get information. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,’ Whitehead had that false pity voice on again. He looked back at Hoffman, making eye contact with him, scowling. Whitehead was confused at this, because he had refused to make eye contact with her not moments ago.

   Still staring at Hoffman, who was watching him in return with a poker face, Jasper spoke to Dr. Whitehead, ‘If I don’t have to tell you anything, can I leave?’

   ‘It doesn’t work like that, Jasper. I have to ensure that you’re of sound enough mind to leave—that you won’t... hurt yourself.’

   He sighed in defeat. That sounded perfectly reasonable, and he didn’t understand why he had lashed out verbally at her like that—she was just doing her job after all. ‘No, I don’t... I don’t remember anything, I think.’

   As Whitehead was writing this down, something Jasper knew only from the scratch scratching sounds of pen on paper, he observed that Hoffman was barely paying attention. The stern man had his arms across his chest in a subconsciously defensive position and was staring out at nothing, thinking heavily. _What about?_ Jasper wondered.

   He was not given much time to ponder the possibilities before Whitehead spoke again, ‘Do you remember what you saw when you woke up in the hospital, Jasper?’ He assumed that it was probably common knowledge that Jigsaw drugged his victims to place them in to his traps, so it was no mystery how she knew he had been unconscious between his capture and his awakening.

 

Jasper looked away from Hoffman, down at the linoleum floor that was recently cleaned, judging from its sheen. He remembered quite vividly, almost to the point of hallucination. It felt like a dream, the way that just thinking about being in the chair made his ears ring with static like that of the television screen.

   ‘Yes,’ he bluntly replied, ‘I remember the taste of metal. I thought it was blood at first—I get blood noses in the night, you see—but it wasn’t.’ He paused, the words caught in his throat, like _it_ had been, ‘It was a gun.’

   Those emotions that his mind had been building walls against suddenly flooded him again, fear and torment.

   ‘What did you see, Jasper?’

   He choked, the feeling of an invisible gun lodged in his oesophagus. ‘Nothing... Just the television, then the lights came on. My mother was there, I could see her then.’ Jasper spoke fast, telling a fast-paced story as hazy images clouded his vision. ‘It spoke, then a clock... A clock started counting down how long I had to decide.’

   No longer in a pitying tone, but in a cold and clinical one, Whitehead queried, ‘What did you have to decide, Jasper? What was the game?’

 

Jasper furrowed his brows. He hadn’t considered what the game was actually intended to be from Jigsaw’s perspective. ‘I believe it was to show me my worth.’

   Whitehead momentarily halted her writing, looking up from her clipboard with a grimace. She continued some more, before placing down the medical report back on to the metal bench with which she had lifted it from. Had his perspective of the game’s purpose upset her? _Perhaps she shouldn’t be a psychiatrist if statements like that are enough to put her off,_ Jasper sarcastically thought.

 

‘That will be all, for now, Mr. Lazard,’ Whitehead eventually spoke up, changing her beforehand use of his first name to the more formal addressing of surname.

   Jasper nodded, sliding off of the examination table and back on to the linoleum flooring, making a soft _tap_ noise as his flat-sole sneakers made contact.

   ‘Do you know where you can stay?’ She asked, more out of curiosity than care. Jasper’s eyes went cold—he had nowhere to stay, but he definitely didn’t want to take up a hospital room. The beds were always stiff and the food inedible, he joked.

   Before he could reply with a solemn no, Hoffman spoke for the first time in many minutes, ‘He will be staying with me.’ Jasper was in no position to decline the request—though it had been phrased as matter of fact rather than proposition—and held his tongue.

   ‘Is that professional, Detective?’ Whitehead questioned with a slight snark on her tone.

   Hoffman didn’t grace her with a retort, instead ushering Jasper towards the door. The boy complied, with a grateful nod. As they exited the room, he began to ponder as to what a Detective’s housing might look like.


	5. Masked Memories

 

The answer to Jasper’s question was not one he had expected. On the drive over, the third travel in the Detective’s car just that night, he had begun imagining expensive furniture and luxuries like dishwashers.

   Upon arrival, however, he was quite disappointed. Even just from outside, Jasper could tell that this man was not particularly wealthy. Dingy and emitting an awfully musty scent, the apartment block sat wedged between several others, all of equally low quality.

   Still, he told himself, it was likely better than his home—not that he could call it that any more. _What will happen to the house now?_ He queried as Hoffman led him up the three front stairs and through the lobby door.

 

Inside there was a reception desk that vaguely resembled that of the hospital, both were surrounded in the same clinical whiteness, but this one was dirty and no grinning ladies sat behind it eager to help. In fact, nobody at all was there to greet their arrival.

   Why there was even a reception desk in an apartment building, Jasper was not entirely certain. If he were to guess, he would say that it was likely that the building was once a hotel that had been converted to cheap apartments.

   This point was further proven on their entrance to the elevator, beside which lay a dirty sign that must have once adorned the outside concrete wall space above the front door. He read it aloud as he followed Hoffman in to the exceedingly small floating box, ‘Jigsaw Hotel?’ It was phrased much like a question, and the adult male curiously raised an eyebrow.

   ‘They changed the name when the word Jigsaw became taboo.’ It was blunt, but answered Jasper’s only half asked question. It raised more though too, like how long Hoffman had lived here and if he quite understood the irony in his doing so—how funny, even, it was. He kept these more unimportant questions to himself.

 

Matching the outer demeanour of the building, the door to Hoffman’s apartment was a generic one. It was white, and the loosely hanging number used to identify his apartment from the others swayed on its conjoined screw as Hoffman unlocked and opened the entrance.

   Inside was shabby, and appeared well lived in. There were various coffee stains permanently etched in to the hay-like carpet as eternal reminders of his clumsiness. A half-drunk coffee sat stone cold atop the wooden knee-high table centred between a corduroy couch and an ancient looking television set.

   Jasper had to look away from the television, its appearance quite striking to the one that had delivered his life or death speech. Hoffman noticed this aversion of eye as he locked the door behind them, but said nothing. Jasper, unaware of the Detective’s fixed glance on him, absent-mindedly touched the back of his head, wondering if his mother felt any pain or if she died immediately. He felt no pity for her, and was not ashamed of his decision to take her life, but he still preferred the thought that she did not die in agony.

 

‘Sit,’ Hoffman eventually commanded in a semi-polite manner, signalling to the three seat couch. Jasper sat, the cushions stiff beneath him, well compressed from many hours of use. Hoffman remained standing, a grim look in his eye as though he were upset at something. Everything felt off to Jasper, who was beginning to become quite uncomfortable with the idea of staying at the Detective’s apartment.

   A clock chimed the hour eleven somewhere indistinct in the background, and he craned his head to find out where. It was as he did this, gaze scrolling over the kitchenette, he saw a strangely realistic pig-head mask sitting limp on the bench. He vaguely recognized it from some place, but the memory was a hazy blur that he could not define the edges of. Perhaps it was something he had seen in a store, he decided, though still suspicious.

   From behind him, Hoffman gave a worried glance in the mask’s direction, kicking himself internally for having left it out. Alas, his worst fears were left unprecedented when Jasper returned his gaze forward without a word mentioning it. Instead, he was content to start an entirely unrelated conversation. ‘Why are you letting me sleep here?’ He inquired.

   Hoffman thought a moment, not quite sure how to reply. His reasons were obviously not innocent, but he wanted to make them appear so as much as possible. ‘I’m an officer of the law—it’s my duty to provide safety to the innocent.’

   Jasper could see through the façade of false police pride, and the corner of his lip twanged upwards in a small flicker of distaste. ‘You don’t seem the type to hold duty above all else,’ Jasper retorted gracefully, his vocabulary returning to him now that he was beginning to calm down over the hours, ‘Nor do I seem the innocent type.’

 

Hoffman couldn’t help but smile at the sudden change in Jasper’s mannerisms. What had earlier been a tear-stained boy with quivering hands and no words to share was now a connoisseur of the English language.

   ‘No, I suppose I don’t. Nor do you,’ he smirked at his mirroring of the polite speech, quite happy with himself for doing so. Jasper felt as though he were being mocked and swallowed saliva to ease his throat.

   ‘But sometimes it’s nice to pretend we are, isn’t it?’ Hoffman stepped closer to the boy, and for a moment he thought the man was going to snuff his life out. He was wrong, however, for instead the Detective merely took a hard seat beside him. There was a cushion between them, so there was no uncomfortable feeling from either of them.

   Jasper nodded, though slowly and with one eyebrow perched higher than the other. ‘Are you saying that I’m not here to fulfil your sense of pride?’ He sensed some other ulterior motive.

 

Correct he was. ‘You caught me,’ Hoffman raised both his hands in a mock display of defeat, ‘You’re here because I want answers.’

   Jasper didn’t even consider that Hoffman was referring to the final query the video tape had delivered to him, but assumed that he was but cornered in to a trap by the Detective to make interrogation easier.

   ‘To what questions might these answers be?’ He smiled weakly, trying to maintain his calm composure.

   ‘How you feel about what happened,’ Hoffman was being blunt and vague in his replies. Jasper bit at his cheek. ‘Isn’t that the sort of question Dr. Whitehead should be asking?’ He was being sarcastic, finding dry humour a good way to dull his anxiety. Hoffman didn’t laugh, but smirked slyly.

   ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t want the answer I want.’

   Jasper tilted his head like a dog does when confused, his greasy hair falling limp against his forehead,‘And what answer would that be?’

   ‘You tell me.’

 

More and more it felt like someone, or something, were draping a cloth of impending doom over him. ‘Would it help you catch Jigsaw, or are you just curious?’ As much as possible, he was avoiding the question.

   ‘That depends on the answer,’ Hoffman was doing the opposite, edging Jasper in to talking. He was an adept interrogator, always finding ways at making people talk. The boy could see this, and knew that if he did not answer that he would just keep receiving the same bombardment of influence in to doing so. It was, therefore, in his best interests of making the conversation end as quickly as possible, to simply reply.

 

‘It feels more like redemption than punishment. If Jigsaw thought I did something wrong and that is why he put me in that situation, then it now feels like he would agree I have atoned for it.’ There was a complete lack of emotion in Jasper’s voice, his tone cold and forward.

   While he had expected Hoffman’s response to be one of disgust or at least distaste, he was—arguably pleasantly—surprised when the man smiled. It was a thin smile, one that stretched across his face like a string of pink.

   ‘Exactly the answer Dr. Whitehead would _not_ be looking for.’ In this statement by the Detective, the implication to Jasper was that it was, in fact, the answer _he_ had been looking for.

 

‘Do you understand the purpose of the games now that you’ve been in one?’ Hoffman somewhat changed the subject.

   Jasper was definitely beginning to suspect some not-so-innocent motives for the man’s questioning. It frightened him, but at the same time there seemed also to be nothing to fear. There was no aura of violence coming from him, easing Jasper’s worries somewhat. ‘I can see that it works, if that’s what you mean.’ He was referring to how the “games” supplied rehabilitation to lost souls in need of a firm hand to guide them.

   Hoffman grunted in approval, leaning over the cushion between them before grinning toothily. Jasper noted how clean his teeth were, and how unnaturally sharp his canines. ‘So then why should anybody stop him?’

 

The devilish look in his eyes, cunning like a fox’s, and the sinister edge to his voice was what suddenly struck Jasper in to a wildfire of mismatched memories.

 

_A blur of green, a figure clasping his arm—he looked up with glazed over eyes to see his attacker, clad in black hooded trench coat. No face. Hidden behind something; a mask. He outstretched his arm to touch the latex, pulling it off slightly in the process. Before he fell in to deep unconsciousness, needle driven hard in to his upper arm, he gazed up in appreciation at the stunning of the blue eye he had revealed._

Jasper returned to the now time with a great gasp for air, letting out a breath he did not know that he had held. He could taste the gun again, in his mouth, the remnants of his memories fading away. White seared the edge of his vision as he turned to stare Hoffman in the eyes, inspecting them closely. The man remained still, smiling ever, allowing the boy to do so.

 

‘Who…’ Jasper started, but he did not need to finish. He knew the answer to his question.

Instead, he posed a new query, ‘How _exactly_ do you expect me to help you?’


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is to be made.

Hoffman remained leaned over, uncomfortably close to Jasper, who had pushed himself back as far as possible in to the corner of the couch. From this short distance, the boy could see every little detail in the man’s face; his unkempt deep-brown hair sprouting in all directions, the dry and cracked skin around his eyes where he had rubbed them raw. It was like looking in to a mirror, he thought, as he recognized the similarities between their imperfections. _A much older mirror_ , he too thought.

 

‘It’s not me that you would be helping,’ Hoffman eventually spoke, drawing Jasper’s eyes to his lips. They were parched and in need of lip balm—subconsciously, he felt his pocket to check if his own was still there. It wasn’t, unsurprisingly.

   ‘Jigsaw?’ He queried in a quiet voice, still not certain about the situation. It seemed to be safe enough, but the closeness of Hoffman was menacing.

   He earned a nod as a reply, and thankfully the older male leaned back out, creating more space between them before opening his mouth to speak again, ‘Don’t know why he chose a kid to join him...’ It was clearly not meant to be answered, and was more an aloud thought than anything substantial to the conversation. Jasper left it alone, staring in a different direction altogether, at the kitchen counter.

 

‘Why a pig mask?’ He was changing the subject. Hoffman made a soft _hmm_ noise and turned to the kitchen counter, following Jasper’s gaze.

   ‘Why aren’t you afraid?’ Hoffman completely ignored the question, much to Jasper’s discontent. ‘Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.’

   It was a bluff, really, for Jasper knew that he could not answer Hoffman. He did not himself understand why he was not screaming and running away in devastation from the man who had kidnapped him and handed him over to America’s deadliest serial killer, but he assumed it had something to do with the old primal concept of capture bonding—the basis to Stockholm Syndrome. Not that he felt romantic towards Hoffman, like Stockholm suggests, but merely indifferent. One bonds with ones captor and survives, one doesn’t bond and one doesn’t survive.

 

‘I don’t have a clue why, you would have to ask Jo—Jigsaw,’ Hoffman almost gave away the deadly criminal’s name, halting in his tracks before correcting himself. Jasper figured that the only name with the prefix “Jo” would be John or Jonathon, in the English language. Though, that was assuming Jigsaw to be English, and he didn’t take lightly to assumptions.

   Following the same pattern of aversion, Jasper smiled meekly and retorted, ‘I don’t have a clue either, so you would have to ask my psychiatrist.’

   Hoffman was amused by this, as he had earlier been with himself when doing the same form of mannerism mirroring to the boy. They had similar tastes in jest, finding such little sarcastic acts to be effectively humorous even in situations that called for seriousness. ‘I don’t think _Alison_ will be able to help you with anything psychological,’ he turned back from the kitchen to look at Jasper, almost jumping when finding the boy already staring at him intently with a look of confusion on his face. He realised he’d let slip something he shouldn’t have, and swallowed down any further words he’d had on the doctor.

   Jasper was having none of this and chimed in, ‘You say that as though this isn’t your first time meeting her.’

   ‘Nothing gets past you, does it,’ Hoffman rejoiced with a sigh of defeat. He placed one arm over the side of the couch and leaned back, looking up at the roof with an ever dull expression slanted over his eyes. ‘It was her first time meeting me, maybe not the other way around though.’

   ‘You must have a lot of free time on your hands, to spend so much of it stalking people,’ Jasper joked lightly, raising one eyebrow sarcastically. Hoffman feigned a smile, though not particularly well, ‘I wouldn’t call it free time; I just do as I’m told.’

   Jasper’s eyebrows dipped inwards, a slight movement that Hoffman barely caught attention of. _He’s just a minion?_ Jasper didn’t want to ask this question out loud for fear of upsetting the man, uncertain as to how dangerous he was. Hoffman had seen his accidental expression however and instinctively knew the query at hand. ‘I’m not in this by choice,’ he calmly explained with a much more serious manner of tone, ‘I was in a similar situation to you.’ He didn’t know why he was telling the child this, perhaps he felt the need to sympathize, or perhaps he was simply reminiscing. It was a little bit of a lie, really, to say that he was in a similar situation, but Jasper didn’t know that. Hoffman tilted his head back with a gentle but throaty sigh as he remembered his first face-to-face encounter with Jigsaw.

   In one swift movement the man jumped off of the couch and in to a standing position, straightening out his police uniform with one hand; with the other, he trailed the length of his hair back over his scalp, letting the strands fall wherever they felt.

   ‘You have a choice, you know.’

   Jasper hadn’t expected him to speak, and was slightly startled. The way he put it, so bluntly, made Jasper reconsider the man’s position. He sounded so distant, almost jealous. Was he really just doing Jigsaw’s bidding, a pawn in a larger chess game? Or perhaps it would be better said, just another unimportant centre piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

   ‘Do I really, though?’ He replied, ‘I mean... you wouldn’t _really_ let me walk away, now that I know who you are?’

 

Hoffman hadn’t considered this, seemingly, as his facials muscles became taut with realization. He swallowed dryly, making eye contact. Jasper saw something in his pinpoint pupils that made him withdraw in his seat, tightening his slender fingers around the corduroy covering. Only when Hoffman relaxed his face and sighed again in soft defeat did Jasper ease his burning knuckles. Perhaps he shouldn’t poke the bear again, he decided, even if it was unintentional.

   ‘That isn’t my choice to make,’ he announced gruffly, looking almost sad now. A child held his whole life, his career and reputation, in his undeserving palms. It had suddenly hit him that Jigsaw could not have possibly overlooked this fact when ordering him to take the boy here and explain, that he had intended this. Was it a game, he wondered, on whether or not he could convince the boy to join? But his orders had been very specific; he was not to manipulate or force anything, it would be entirely Jasper’s will to join the band of moral vigilante’s or not. Clenching his teeth at the subtle betrayal by a man he had slowly come to trust, he refused to make any notion of eye contact. He felt powerless under the weight of a child’s frightened decision, which would likely be to flee. Even though he was staring in a totally opposite position, he could feel the burning gaze of the boy etching in to him.

 

If only he had looked, he would have seen that Jasper’s expression was not one of fear but of sympathy. Not pity, to clarify, but a sort of mutual despair. Both of them were entwined in Jigsaw’s game of human survival, and he could feel the crushing force of the importance to whatever decision he would make on the matter.

   Though, he supposed, even if he left and refused the offer put up to him, he didn’t actually _have_ to out Hoffman as an accomplice. What reason was there not to, though, for the man _was_ the reason he was even in this situation, the reason his mother was likely on some metal slab somewhere. But then again, if he truly was an unwilling accomplice to Jigsaw through some unfortunate manipulation, was it truly his fault?

   Jasper bit his lip; everything was suddenly too hard. Everything was connected and his decision held a weight he didn’t want to lift. He was no more in control than Hoffman, he realised, a victim to his own conscience.

   Would Hoffman hurt him, should he try leave? Would Jigsaw allow that? Was it in his best interests just to comply and follow along in the game? So many questions were raised, and none seemed to bear the answer he was seeking.

 

A moody fog of disparity had clouded the room, sticking wet to their skins like the anxious sweat beginning to form. Jasper dug his nails deep in to his palm, feeling his mind clear with the breaking of skin.

   Sighing deeply, he stood up and walked over to face Hoffman. ‘If I said yes, would I be safe?’

   Hoffman’s tenseness melted away and he turned his head back slowly to give a calm glance over Jasper. ‘Safe?’ He queried; the notion almost laughable. ‘No safer than if you said no,’ a sorry smile, almost pitiful but more understanding than that, pierced his lips. Jasper could tell he was at least somewhat referring to his own situation. Nodding he maintained eye contact, an uncommon feat. ‘If I said yes, there would be no changing my mind, would there?’

   Hoffman nodded too, breaking eye contact only for an instance when a small _ding_ of a text notification sounded from his coat pocket. Quickly he returned his eyes to Jasper, deeply immersed in the boy’s unravelling decision.

 

There was another question on the tip of his tongue, but he quickly reconsidered saying it; it defied Jigsaw’s reasoning behind his games. _Would I get to hurt people that deserve it?_ He thought to himself sinisterly in his mind, a feeling of justice rising within him. He could be in control of so many lives, so many undeserving lives.

   But that was not how it worked, he knew. The games were designed to give an opportunity of rehabilitation—not punishment. Swallowing down the question, until a later time perhaps, he closed his eyes softly so that his long lashes tickled his cheeks.

 

‘Yes, then, I suppose...’

 

Hoffman unconsciously raised a hand to place upon Jasper’s shoulder, an unfamiliar notion of comfort to either of them. Jasper smiled weakly and opened his eyes to find Hoffman calmly eyeing him, ‘What now?’


	7. Chapter 7

Minutes had gone by with Hoffman replying to the text message he had received, followed by calling seemingly the same number. The conversation—or the one side of it that Jasper had access to hear—was blunt, mostly just gruff grunts of compliance from Hoffman and the occasional voiced agreement.

   When he finally hung up, placing the phone on the coffee table now rather than in his pocket where it had come from, he sighed shallowly. It was a sigh of annoyance rather than relief or upset; a particular sound that Jasper was well familiar with, having made it many a time in the past. For a moment he was concerned whether it was him that Hoffman was annoyed with, but his attention was drawn away swiftly.

                                                                                

‘He says he is pleased with your decision,’ Hoffman voiced with his back to the boy, ‘And that we should go meet him.’

   Jasper automatically knew that the implication of “him” was Jigsaw, so there was little point in asking if that were the case. Who else would be pleased with him for choosing to join a band of vagabond vigilantes?

   ‘Now?’ he queried instead, trying to ignore the rudeness of the detective’s turned back. He glanced down at the phone on the table, noting its “last-season” flip phone design. Though, he wasn’t particularly surprised that a middle aged government official wasn’t entirely up with the times in technology.

   ‘ _Yes_ , now,’ Hoffman tutted uncomfortably. Jasper furrowed his brows but said nothing, keeping his opinions to himself of the man’s sudden change to being a total jackass. _What did Jigsaw say to piss him off this much?_ He wondered briefly.

 

There was no further conversation, stinted by the clearly disheartened male snatching the pig mask from the kitchen table and shoving it in to one of the many cargo pockets lining the outside of his jacket.

   The idea of going for yet _another_ silent car ride with the man made Jasper subtly uncomfortable and he rocked back on his heels before following quickly. In the process, he grabbed Hoffman’s phone from the coffee table and held its cool body within the palm of his hand. ‘Wait!’ He called out, anxious not to be left alone for some reason uncertain to himself. Whitehead would have pointed out that he was afraid of being kidnapped again, but Jasper knew that not to be true—the only person he was afraid of kidnapping him again was clearly not going to do so. Maybe he just didn’t want to be left alone with his memories, he considered.

  

Hoffman did wait for him, though only because he needed to lock the door behind them. As Jasper exited the small apartment, the musky scent leaving his nostrils with some sense of joy, he held out the cell in an open hand. ‘Mm,’ he grunted in approval, looking at the phone absently for a few seconds before taking it calmly, ‘Thank you.’

   Jasper raised an eyebrow as Hoffman turned away to lock the door, confused as to why the rollercoaster of the man’s angst-y emotions had gone full circle back to being well composed and somewhat snarky. At least he had reigned himself in and stopped being rude, though it only made Jasper question more what Jigsaw had said.

 

When he turned around again, Hoffman noticed Jasper’s curious gaze but refrained from letting his cool exterior show this. Instead, he thrust the keys out before him and then threw them lightly—Jasper barely caught them, fumbling a little to contain the rattling set of metal.

   ‘Go to the car, I’ll be there in a minute.’

   ‘Why? What are you doing?’

   He rolled his eyes, remembering how much he hated teenagers and their non-stop questions about unimportant nothings. ‘I’m going to get a drink from the canteen,’ he retorted, making a shooing motion with his right hand as he started off down the empty corridor.

   A light above him flickered on and off occasionally, its dim yellow luminescent life coming to an abrupt end suddenly.

   Jasper followed him silently, and wouldn’t have been noticed by Hoffman if he hadn’t commented on the light, his footsteps seemingly _made_ for stalking. ‘Shouldn’t they get that fixed?’ He pointed up at the light bulb that had shuttered off. Hoffman jumped and spun on his heels, instinctively touching to his gun before letting his arms come together on his chest, crossed. ‘Didn’t I tell you to go to the car?’

   ‘You did. But did I say I would?’ Jasper joked slyly, feeling more confident now. Hoffman was having none of it shook his head, ‘Why not? I’ll just be a minute.’

   Jasper considered this for a moment, debating on what answer to give. _I don’t want to be alone out there_ , he thought, but did not say. ‘I didn’t believe you when you said you were going to the canteen,’ he lied instead. He had, actually, believed Hoffman. What really was there to do in a rundown hotel-turned-apartment building other than spend a few bucks on an iced coffee or bag of chips?

 

Hoffman knew this not however and was quite offended at the child’s lack of trust, though he couldn’t blame him. He _was_ the person who’d kidnapped him and pitted him in a life or death game against his own mother. _No, that was John,_ he re-phrased in his mind. Hoffman was inwardly incapable of taking blame himself for his own actions, always pushing fault on others.

   ‘Fine,’ he finally blurted out, somewhat harshly. Jasper let his eyebrows dip in a moment of upset, saying nothing to counter the blunt rebuttal.

 

The canteen was nothing more than one of those vending machines that every public building tended to have, with a large glass window to view all of the options and on the side an array of buttons, each corresponding to the inner delights.

   Most of it was candy and snacks, though along the bottom was a cordoned off refrigerated section with cool drinks. Hoffman didn’t kneel to view his options, already knowing exactly what he was getting before they even stepped up to the machine. He fuddled around in his pockets for a moment before pulling a five dollar note from within.

   Seconds after the note was inserted in to the machine, a low rumbling hum threw the thing in to life—two cola cans began to be pushed towards the front of the display case, dropping down in to the retrieval box. Hoffman leaned over and grabbed them.

   ‘Here,’ the man gruffly said, practically throwing the second can to his younger acquaintance. Jasper was more expectant of the unexpected throw this time than last, and caught it more fluidly. The feel of the cold aluminium under his fingertips was surprisingly pleasant, and it was then he realised he had been overheating with anxiety the whole time. ‘Thanks...’ He breathed under his breath, giving Hoffman a small smile of appreciation.

   The man avoided his gaze entirely and started walking back down the corridor, his left hand hovering over Jasper’s waist to beckon him in to following.

 

\-----◌-----

 

It was just over half an hour before they arrived at the empty warehouse, Jasper’s cola can still unopened. Hoffman’s lay at his feet in the driver’s seat of the car, empty a long time ago.

 

‘We have arrived.’

   _Not exactly conversational,_ Jasper thought to himself snarkily, forgetting for a moment that neither was he. Some part of him was grateful that there was no awkward small talk amongst the pair. Caught in his dull thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the detective slip from within the car and jumped in his still buckled seatbelt as the man poked his head back inside, ‘Coming?’

   ‘You say that as though it’s a question,’ Jasper sighed sarcastically, opening his door and stepping out with a satisfying _click_ of the seatbelt unbuckling. From over the other side of the car, the man stared at him smugly, ‘Well, you did have a choice to back out—you chose to ignore it.’

   Jasper looked down at the gravel of the large, empty parking lot and smiled reminiscently to the conversation they’d had not long ago about his joining the criminals. ‘True, that,’ he settled on bluntly admitting, looking up again.

 

It felt all too familiar there in that open space, the cool air brushing against his cheeks like a cool caress. It threw him back in to the memory of the parking lot to the abandoned hospital he’d been carried out of, weak and crying. At the time, he hadn’t thought much about it, but the run-down architecture was quite beautiful from the outside.

   The warehouse they then stood outside, not so much. It was bland and generic, a metal construction with little shape to it. Just a rectangle with large garage doors and just as large windows, a tattered sign above them titled “Gideon Meat Packing Plant” in 70’s style arcade lettering. It clearly was not an arcade, however, with a foul stench hanging low in the air. _Like death_ , he noted.

 

‘Come on, inside before somebody notices,’ Hoffman announced, trekking along the tarmac towards a small door beside the garage doors.

   ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere, I don’t think anybody will see us,’ Jasper commented. He paused, before starting to walk and continuing, ‘Plus, if anybody was suspicious they’d just write down your number plate, right?’

 

Hoffman growled—apparently he hadn’t _actually_ thought of that. Probably not the best idea to just park your licensed car in the otherwise empty parking lot of the abandoned building you plan murderous games in.

   Jasper found it funny and stifled a chuckle, at how naive Hoffman was to have overlooked that “small” detail.

 

‘Just hurry,’ Hoffman retorted, waving his hand in a hurrying manner. Jasper obliged and sped up his pace to a slight jog to catch up and walk beside the detective. A heavy gust blew his hair in to his face and he spat it out of his mouth, shaking his head like a wet dog to get the rest of it off.

   Sideways glancing at him, the older man smiled. There was something so innocent and pure about the boy, whose life had shattered in only one day. It was quite obviously a facade, however, and Hoffman’s smile loosened. Jasper was either very good at hiding his fear, or he was too broken to feel anything; the thought turned Hoffman off.

   Still struggling to free his vision of hair strands, Jasper was somewhat grateful but mostly taken aback as Hoffman’s hand swiped over his forehead gently, slicking the fringe back. Looking up at him with a skittish expression, mouth partially open, he raised an eyebrow. Hoffman ignored him and kept walking.

   Above them, the dark and empty sky began to swell with plush grey clouds. Droplets of rain fell in scarce amounts, and the two sped up until they were at the front of the door. Hoffman slipped a key from one of his pockets and inserted it in to the lock, a rusty clicking noise allowing their entrance just as the rain began to thicken.

   Jasper shuddered as he entered the building, looking back at the door closing behind them by nothing more than its own weight. It made an awful screeching noise and came to an abrupt stop just before fully shutting. He, with one hand wrapped around his waist in uncomfortable cold, used his other free hand to close the door completely. ‘It locks automatically,’ he heard Hoffman say from beside him—though it was hard to make much out, and he could hardly see the man. Lights were dimly shining off in the distance, ahead from the door, but where they stood in the entrance there was little light.

 

Hoffman, without another word, headed towards the almost beckoning light. Jasper stood still for a moment, dew clinging to the risen hairs along his arms, before following. It was becoming a trend, him following after the detective like a lost puppy; an analogy he’d like to distance himself from.

 

Just short of another doorway, open this time, Hoffman halted. He calmly gazed over Jasper as he, too, stopped. Perhaps it was the twitch of his lips, or the falter in his gaze, but Jasper could tell Hoffman was upset at something. _Something to do with me,_ he thought. Perhaps it related to how upset Hoffman had been back at his apartment; but Jasper was making these associations with no evidence and decided to dismiss the possibility for the time being. No point in over-thinking things.

 

Breathing in heavily, though shallowly within his throat, Hoffman made the first step in to the room; his demeanour changed inexplicably as he did so. The change was in no way subtle to the on-looking Jasper. He went from slightly slouching, a pouty look on his face, to being well-postured and bearing an almost narcissistic expression.

    _Putting on an act for his keeper?_ Jasper curiously wondered. Something definitely felt off; Hoffman was an acquaintance in crime to Jigsaw, but from what he’d seen in the short time knowing the double agent detective, it was almost forced. Hoffman _had_ said that he had no choice in the matter, but Jasper hadn’t considered that the situation might be more than simple blackmail. Things were looking more and more grim, and _oh so curious._


End file.
